


Drive Away (Until You're Ready To Come Back)

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: bigbang_mixup, First Time, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean sells his soul, he convinces Sam to quit hunting and travel on the Great American Roadtrip. First stop is the Grand Canyon, Dean’s childhood destination point. Now it’s also the place where adult lives change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the bigbang_mixup big bang challenge. I claimed a mix that evoked images of a road trip from andrea_deer and created this. Thank you to angelusabchao who's comprehensive beta skills made this story better than it ever could have been. Of course everyone at the Big Bang Mixup community also deserves a huge thank-you for creating and running this challenge in the first place.
> 
> Contains explicit incest, sexual content, language, and it's pretty angsty.
> 
> Supernatural does not belong to me. This piece of fiction was written for entertainment purposes only, no profit is gained.

_You sold your soul, you’re going to hell._  
  
Dean tries to ignore the irony. How this is exactly what Dad did, and how much that still hurts. Then there's Sam. Leaning against the impala’s hood, just looking around, and he doesn't seem all with it. Understandable, they did just end the one thing their whole life has been about. Dean has to swallow down words and force a smile on his face whenever he looks at Sam now.  
  
He clears his throat until Sam looks up. “What d’you think about road trips?”  
  
Sam’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”  
  
Dean’s always careful when he speaks now, because he’s just waiting for that moment he slips, or that moment Sam finds some way to look into what he’s not saying. He knows Sam could. “Y’know, travel across the states - Grand Canyon, collect tacky key-rings?”  
  
“I know what a road trip is,” Sam says slowly. “Why are we talking about them?”  
  
“We should go on one.”  
  
It’s simple enough. He’s not lying. It’s about time they travelled across the country. See the Grand Canyon, play craps in Vegas, bang a celeb in Hollywood. All things on the great to-do list of Dean Winchester, and right now seems like the time to do it.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Dean shrugs. “Why not? We should celebrate, Sammy.” The last part isn’t as strong as he hoped it to be, actually it borders on wavering. But he’s not about to give in now. “We’ve been all across the states. Never took the time to look around.”  
  
“Never thought you were interested.”  
  
Sam’s not making this easy.  
  
“Just never had the time.”  
  
They're all but glaring at each other at this point, and Dean doesn’t know why. He never intended to make a fight out of this, but that’s the way everything keeps turning lately. Dean’s getting tired. “Forget it,” he says eventually, turning to stare up into the star-covered sky. Dean can’t help thinking  _three-sixty-three_.  
  
“No way am I forgetting it.” Sam’s not as angry as Dean expected. Sounds amused, even. “We should.”  
  
Dean pauses rigid before he turns back to Sam. He’s really watching Dean now and Dean tries to decide if his brother's being a smartass or actually trying to be nice for once. He doesn’t trust instinct anymore, not after all that's happened. He still can’t get that image out of his mind of Sam lying on that mattress. Unmoving.  
  
“Dad always said we’d travel.”  
  
Sam’s words seem to come out of nowhere and Sam-lying-there is replaced by Sam-standing there. Dean remembers that. Only Dad said a whole lot of things that never happened, and Dean’s trained himself to push everything his father’s said into a list of ‘things your Dad won’t do’. It saved him from a lot of disappointment. Road tripping lived somewhere high up on that list.  
  
“Guess we’ll have to do it for him.”  
  
Dean’s not letting himself trust blindly. His eyes train on Sam, daring him to crack and start laughing, tell him to stop being an idiot, say they’ve got hunting to do. Or, worse, Sam’s going to tell him that it’s all over now, and he’s going back to school.  
  
“You really wanna do this?” Sam doesn’t wait for an answer. “Then we should. Right now. Where to?”  
  
“Why’re you so happy to jump on board?” Out there in the open he leaves his doubt for Sam to pick up on and decipher. Dean just hopes there aren't enough pieces to make an accurate guess.  
  
“We’ve done what we need to. We deserve a break.”  
  
And that’s how it started.  
  
::  
  
Dean’s wanted to see the Grand Canyon since he was old enough to read a map. Library trips only cemented the idea after he found a book with glossy print of the orange rocks. There seemed no better time to make that dream come true than right now.  
  
They're the Winchesters. A plan could be thought of at dawn, and they'd set out when the sun still sits in the east. Possessions quickly loaded into four duffels thrown into the back of the impala, arsenal locked and loaded because, while Dean really does want this break, he already knows he’s cursed. No point opening the gates before their due time.  
  
The only traffic on Backwater Road, Wyoming are a crack-of-dawn school bus filled with bleary eyed kids and a truck overloaded with hay bales. It’s peaceful, really, just Dean, Sam, and Zeppelin fading into the world. Dean thinks communication should join it, but there’s that ever-looming possibility he’ll let something slip.  
  
It’s better to just stay safe.  
  
Unfortunately it doesn’t stop Sam from wanting to say something. He keeps reaching out for the volume and Dean keeps swatting his hand away. “Dude— _Zeppelin_.”  
  
“Why the Grand Canyon, anyway?” Sam yells above the music.  
  
Dean only turns it down half an inch and looks at Sam from the corner of his eye. He trains himself steadily in what he says. “Isn’t that s'posed to be the official destination for a road trip across the US of A?”  
  
Sam just shrugs and seems to not care about anymore questions. The music goes back up, but Dean’s not even listening to Robert Plant’s voice anymore. He hates that. Driving has always been the one escape he has from everything else, he forgets everything when he flies down crazy street in his baby, but now it’s become just another location to remember the death of Sam.  
  
He grips the wheel tighter, and sees Sam’s eyebrows raise. Loosens them again. Great, now Sam’s picking up on every slight change of mannerism. More things for Dean to remember to compose. He gives up on the fake smiling to make room in his head.  
  
They’ve still got another day’s drive, and Dean knows it shouldn’t be like this. He wanted the trip to make things go away, to actually  _enjoy_ \- and give Sam a chance to have fun, too. After all he’s been through after the past few years...  
  
Dean feels his hands start gripping again and lets his fingers fall loose.  
  
They hit the Colorado state border by half past eight. Dean deliberately avoided the highways for reasons he doesn’t even know anymore. His looks over at Sam who's staring at the rear view mirror.  
  
“What?” Dean asks, twisting in his seat. “Didn’t hit somethin’, did I?”  
  
Sam eyes flick back to the front. “No, I—” He shakes his head.  
  
“Got a booty call thing going on in Wyoming, hey?” He doesn’t even have to force the smile now. That feels nice.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “No. Been with you every second we were in the state. No, uh, just...” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck, and Dean watches his eyes flicker back to the mirror. “Do you think we should’ve left this early? I mean, we opened the gates of hell. Something tells me we should’ve, you know, stuck around to see the outcome.”  
  
There it is. Just took him a state line to start doubting, to want to turn back. The smile’s gone and Dean chews down on his bottom lip until he manages to think of something to say. “You wanna go back?”  
  
“No, it’s just—”  
  
“Then what, Sam? You gonna guilt trip me the rest of the drive?” Dean turns attention from the road directly onto Sam. Stares him down, _dares_ to start speaking the truth. If Sam wants to go back to Stanford, Dean wants the truth  _now_. He’s not hauling ass halfway across the States to find out it’s been for nothing at the end.  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything, just sets his face on the road ahead. Dean keeps watching and he sees his brother sneak peeks at the mirrors, at Dean, from the corner of his eye.  
  
Dean is tempted, so tempted, to turn around right now and leave Sam in Wyoming to clean up whatever mess they’ve left there. Then Sam will hitch-hike to Stanford like the first time, Dean watching him turn his back on his family for the second time.  
  
Instead, he just looks back in front of him and presses harder on the gas pedal. They fly through Colorado with the only sounds being heavy metal until nightfall looms close.  
  
“Can I drive?”  
  
“No.”  
  
It’s such a natural response that Dean didn’t even have to think. He turns to Sam who has his lips pulling upwards and wavering. The look of his brother’s face, and Dean lets himself laugh. Real, actual laughter, and Sam follows with a scoff, a smirk.  
  
“Jerk,” he mutters.  
  
“Bitch,” is Dean’s response.  
  
He’s still laughing and it actually hurts. Like he  _shouldn’t_ doing this, but he also shouldn’t stay mad at Sam. Too much confusion, too much to keep inside, so it’s cry or laugh and he’s not about to let go of the no chick flick moments rule while they’re driving down a dusty road.  
  
Even less likely to when he realises traffic’s died enough for Dean to decide it’s worth hitting the freeway again. The laughing dies out with a final cough, cut off too quickly to really be natural, but Sam doesn't say anything.  
  
Dean speaks instead, “So d’you want to stop at a motel? Do the whole 'enjoy the journey insead of the destination' crap?"  
  
"You tired?"  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then we should keep driving.”  
  
They lapse back into that silence, and Dean can’t even bring himself to turn the tape over as the last lines of Zeppelin mingle in the impala... _we’ll still go walking down country lanes, I’ll sing the same old songs, hear me call your name..._  
  
::  
  
They meet the Grand Canyon National Park at night. Sam tells him to book a motel room and wait for daybreak, but Dean’s actually happy about the timing. Besides, they’re not breaking any rules - the reflective sign back there told him the park's open twenty-four-seven. It's light enough for him to see the rocks, the earth, and the huge drop he knows could soon be below them. It’s crazy to think they’ve been in and out of Arizona at least a dozen times, and Dad never let them take a break here.  
  
So he’s not paying attention when Sam says they’re meant to pay someone to enter, and just lets this stupid smile, which probably  _looks_ but really actually isn’t, stay plastered on his face. He’s like a kid again, and maybe that’s why he brought them here. Live out the last of life near the start, back when things were...well, they weren’t simple, but they sure as hell had more rhyme and reason to them than things do these days.  
  
“Planning to book some lodging?” Sam asks as they begin the slow crawl further into the park.  
  
“Spent enough of our lives in motels,” Dean responds, more offhand than anything. He’s trying to look around, take it all in. “Look at the stars, Sammy.”  
  
He has to admit that all this artificial light is making the stars above them harder to see, but Dean’s gained his second wind and the idea of sleeping really doesn’t appeal. He could just keep driving all night, all day, further and further into the canyon until they’re right at the edge, hanging over.  
  
“We haven’t camped out in a while,” Sam admits.  
  
Dean looks over to see his brother staring out the window. There’s no force in the small smile that appears on his lips. That’s all he really wants from this whole trip - hell, for the whole year. Just to enjoy it, let Sam enjoy it.  
  
He still hasn’t figured out how to tell Sam, but he’s going to ignore that until they leave this place and go back to their job. And they will. He knows they will. He doesn’t want to, but he’s stopped thinking anything different.  
  
The silence isn’t as awkward, not like before. Dean even winds down the windows, and lets in the wind, the occasional sound of birds that move after dark, and just that hum of the impala purring as she moves.  
  
It’ll be better during the day, sure, it’ll resemble those glossy photographs he’s remembered all these years, but Dean’s still happy they drove in now. Because it’s  _awesome_. Apparently photographers didn’t agree often enough, because Dean didn’t recognise the blue of the rocks and the splattering of billions - fuck, make it  _trillions_ of stars in the sky.  
  
The further in they go, the more stars seem to appear. Verging upward, the darker the stones look. Dean doesn’t even know exactly where he’s driving. He could probably drive the whole north rim without stopping tonight, all wired up like a kid at his first visit to Disneyland, but he doesn’t want that. So he stops at the next parking sign the impala’s headlights hit and turns off the ignition.  
  
"Happy?"  
  
He doesn't wait for a response from Sam before stepping from the car. Must be early in the season, he guesses, because there’s no other vehicles here. Just the two of them alone in the world. It's much less unsettling than he thinks it should be. The sound of Sam shutting the passenger side door and crunching on the dirt ground seems magnified.  
  
"Do we still have a tent back here?" Sam asks, knuckles rapping on the impala's trunk.  
  
Dean walks around to his brother and shakes his head. "Nah. Too many guns." Unlocking the trunk and pulling it open he hooks his hand around a twelve-pack of beer. "We do have this, though."  
  
Sam just grins. "Always so practical, Dean."  
  
"Damn straight."  
  
The view from where they're parked could never be insulted, but Dean's got some deep seated desire to recreate National Geographic, which requires actually looking into the abyss. Beer in hand and Sam behind him, he makes his way up the incline. It’s not far, they’ve managed to find a pretty damn good spot, and Dean stops to stare out in front of him.  
  
More stars, dozens and dozens of millions of stars, just coating the sky as far as Dean can see. Looking down he can hardly make out anything, but he knows it’s just a huge gap down there with rocks jutting out in no real order. He's always wanted to be here.  
  
He closes his eyes, breathes in deep, and lets the quiet summer breeze push away the rest of his thoughts. He’ll make the most of this, starting right now.  
  
He hears Sam stop behind him, letting out a low whistle that echoes and bounces out in every which direction. “Wow, quite a sight.”  
  
“Yeah, well, we never take the time to look around.”  
  
He considers just how much they’ve missed over the years, how many sights and experiences the Winchesters have let fly past them because salt n’ burning the demon, the spirit, the werewolf were always more important. They could’ve taken at least a day’s break, Dean’s sure of that.  
  
“Jess wanted to come here.”  
  
Dean turns his head, looks at Sam.  
  
“Yeah, uh, during semester break.” He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. “Thought it was romantic.”  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows but says nothing. He turns back to look out over the sky.  
  
::  
  
Dean gets his Polaroid early the next morning, while Sam’s still asleep on the impala’s passenger seat, all limbs curled up in an awkward position. Dean’s leather jacket half covers his legs, after he bitched last night about how cold it was and Dean played mock difficulty in having to give up his coat. “Do I have to spoon you too?” Sam just gave him a look and turned away.  
  
He debates waking Sam but decides against it as he silently slips from the impala and just as quietly closes the door. Sam shifts, head rolling to the side so Dean can see his closed eyelids, and he then falls still again. Satisfied, Dean stretches into the yellowing sky and makes his way up that same path they took last night. It's a much shorter distance than he remembers, and he can look down now. Can see everything.  
  
It looks just like those magazines, textbooks, and photography journals he flipped through years ago, and it feels like that adrenaline running through you on a hunt, when you finally discover what creature you’re dealing with and load up ready to kill some evil sons of bitches.  
  
Except the only risk here is falling, but it’s all his choice for once, no monster running after him. Dean toes the rocks, listening to the echo of their crumble, loud with the hollowness of the canyon. He can’t even see where they fall, too many huge stones blocking a clear path to the bottom.  
  
“All you expected?”  
  
He’s not even surprised to hear Sam’s voice. He' expected his brother’s hunter instinct to kick in sooner or later and send him searching. There’s a reason they’ve both still got guns hooked under their jeans, and Dean’s got a silver knife in the holster around his ankle.  
  
“S’not bad.”  
  
Sam snorts and starts walking again, ground crunching beneath his feet. Even during the day it’s silent of people, of cars. There’s more birds now, more rustle of something in the nearby grass. Sam stops beside him, and Dean sees Sam’s wearing the leather jacket.  
  
He thinks to say something - Dad gave it to  _him_ but bites his tongue. He’s not cold, and he’s sick of finding things to bitch about  _just ‘cause_. Just ‘cause it’s easier than saying anything else out loud.  
  
“Glad we finally came here,” Sam says quietly.  
  
They watch the sunrise in silence.  
  
::  
  
By the time the sun’s high in the sky, Sam’s convinced Dean to leave the impala and take in the setting on foot. Even though they’ve never been here before, national parks have come up often enough in their long and varied careers that they figure out the right paths easily enough. Of course Dean also insists they ignore explicitly marked trails, shoving them deeper and deeper, lower and lower.  
  
“I’m thinking you don’t wanna lose your way back to the car,” Sam says after Dean’s led him to a dead end, and proceeds to jump onto a rock further down.  
  
“Yup.” He jumps to another.  
  
Dean knows they’ll find their way back, it’s not an issue. Right now he’s just decided to live in the moment, take in all he can as they walk. It’s different again in the middle of the day, like an entirely new setting.  
  
Like more views taken directly from printed photographs, makes him feel like he’s been pulled inside - like a djinn somehow projected this memory, this thought, this want. He wishes he could just stop thinking about hunting. But old habits die hard, he supposes.  
  
“Do you even have a map?”  
  
“I have a mind. I have  _instinct_.”  
  
Sam shakes his head but shuts up. The path's changed now and they're walking on crumbling pieces of stone that Dean keeps kicking out from under them. He ducks under a low-hanging branch and turns back to smirk with the expectation of it hitting Sam, but take-in-the-scenery Sammy is too busy looking around to pay attention, and the branch smacks him square in the face.  
  
The grin he feels on his face is swiped straight off when rocks start giving way under Sam's feet and he stumbles a step forward, clutching at Dean's shoulder to steady himself. Only Dean's not stable either, not used to the crumble of rocks as he is the steadiness of asphalt, and a stray rock skids out from under his boot.  
  
He lurches forward and out of Sam's drip, trying to find a foothold in the dirt, but there isn't any. They're nowhere near any main path, far into the middle of fuck-knows-where, and even the trees have thinned out so he has nowhere to grab onto. Hitting the dirt, he slides forward, hissing out as pain shoots along his side. The another movement and heavy weight lands on his arm. A yell, then he echoes it: "Sam!"  
  
He forces himself to roll back over as dirt and rocks pull at his skin. He grips tighter at Sam's shirt and uses all his effort to pull Sam back toward him. The pieces of rock are slicing and burning as the weight of Sam pulls him along, but he blocks it out. He tries to think, tries to picture what's at the end of this slope, but his mind's blank. The fear spikes hard.  
  
All of him focuses on his hands yanking at Sam's back, intent on stopping him from falling further down the trail. Branches tear at his skin and clothing, and he's through a pile of bramble before he can see they are much, much closer to the edge of the canyon than Dean thought they could be.  
  
He wrenches himself forward and gives another hard pull, digging his feet into the dirt, and Sam's stopped moving downward, feet just gazing the edge of the chasm. Sam rolls onto his back, away from the edge, and he's breathing in harsh gasps. Dean keeps a grip on his shirt.  _Jesus -- fuck!_  
  
“Tell me again why you wanted to go this way?” Sam’s voice sounds pained, heavy.  
  
“Shut up.” Even though he had every intent to make that sound annoyed, angry even, he can't quiet make it come out that way. Not even around the edges. It’s just fucking scared. His eyes trail back over that ledge. Sam’s still too close to it.  
  
Dean tries to pull him even closer to his chest and away from the edge, but the adrenaline’s been washed away and Sam’s too heavy to move. He’s grateful when Sam takes it upon himself to move to his feet. Dean follows quickly and grabs his brother’s shoulder as he sways.  
  
“Fuck—Dean.”  
  
Dean follows to where Sam's looking, down at Dean's left side. The dark material of his shirt is torn and tattered, mottled now with blood and the dirty, orange stone.  _Shit_. It didn't hurt until now, either. Now it's stinging, joined by a heavy, dull ache in his hip as he tries to limp forward.  
  
"M'fine," he insists to Sam, but bites back a cringe as he tries to push Sam back they way they've come. "Wha'bout you? Almost took a swan dive there, Sammy."  
  
“Won’t be listening to your orienteering skills again, that’s for sure.”  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Dean knows his brother's hurting just as much as Dean's hiding. He takes limping steps as Dean guides them back up, and Dean just hopes he hasn't hit his head, hasn't got any internal shit going on.  
  
He's not about to lose Sam again. Honestly, though, the deal doesn't mean a thing. That's not what Dean's ever really been afraid of. He's more scared of what would've happened if he hadn't made it.  
  
They slowly move back toward the impala.  
  
::  
  
"Tryin' to butcher me?" Dean jolts away from Sam, a sound of pain escaping through his clenched teeth.  
  
"Shh." It's a short, sharp sound - not at all soothing - and Sam proceeds to waste more alcohol on Dean's side. It's not a deep cut, Sam tells him, just filled with rocks and other debris. "You really wanted to keep the Grand Canyon with you this bad?"  
  
"Eat me," Dean groans.  
  
He's not looking as Sam works, pinches of movement that make Dean wince every time as Sam slowly uses tweezers to get each stone from Dean's side. He knows it's a mess, best not to try and fix it himself. He tried to fix Sam first, but his brother's got a knee the size of Kentucky and they can't do much about that.  
  
"Your hip looks like my knee," Sam notes.  _Great_. Dean feels Sam move away. "That's about all I can do."  
  
It doesn't feel any better. Worse, actually, but he hides that and turns back to Sam. "Thanks," he mutters.  
  
Sam smirks and begins to re-assemble the half-assed first-aid kid Dean put together years ago after he and Sam were stranded out in the middle of Nowhere, Utah on a hunt. Desert monsters of some description Dean doesn't even remember the name of got the best of Sam, left him bleeding out in the dusty heat of the state.  
  
The kit's missing more than it's got, but tweezers, a few bandages, and over-the-counter pain killers go a long way when there's booze and knives to help stretch out the supplies.  
  
"Y'know, I don't even think the season's open," Sam says.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"There's no cars - people. I was thinking it's too early in May to be official hiking season."  
  
The pain's less overwhelming when Dean tries to figure out just what the hell Sam's on about. "And that matters why...?  
  
Sam shrugs and puts the shoebox first-aid kit back under the passenger seat. "Just on our own around here s'all."  
  
 _And that matters why...?_


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's still afraid Sam's hit his head. Says he can't remember falling, but then insists Dean doesn't remember it all, either. That's true, but it doesn't change things. Sam fell asleep too quickly, bunched up again on the passenger seat even thought there's a perfectly good, more Sasquatch-built back seat just waiting there.  
  
Dean had wanted to drive back to town, but apparently all the high-altitude air has done something to Sam and he's started up with all this sentimental crap about re-living Dean's childhood dream. Dean's too beaten and bruised to put up much of a fight.  
  
Instead, Dean focuses his energy on staying away to make sure Sam doesn't...Dean's suddenly drawn a blank on the symptoms of concussion, but knows  _Dr. Sexy M.D._ note that patients shouldn't fall asleep if it's suspected. Dean doesn't think Dr. Sexy has ever had to keep someone as bitchy as Sam awake, so he does the next best thing and just keeps one eye on him.  
  
Sam looks smaller when he sleeps. Yeah, he's still overgrown, but it's in his face. It looks more vulnerable. The nightmares have stopped, and it's like all the shit of the past couple of years hasn't hit him yet.  
  
Dean wonders how long it's going to take to catch up, if all the progress would disappear if Sam knew the truth. He knows it was only a matter of time before he's stuck thinking about the deal again. Sleep was good for ignoring -  _whiskey-induced_ was best - but the options are sleep or Sam, and it isn't a hard choice. Never has been.  
  
They've moved to another parking space, one that may or may not be allowed because there was no sign, but the sky looks about the same. It's still a dark black you'll never see anywhere except in the middle of nowhere, and even then it's different than the sky in the fields, in the woods. Its own, unique patch of black. The stars even seem closer in it, or maybe that's just because they're so high up.  
  
Sam stirs and Dean looks down at him. He's got a duty, shouldn't be focusing on the fucking  _landscape_. Sam's eyelids open slowly and he blinks back even without any light. "You alright?" Dean asks.  
  
Sam seems to take a moment to focus on Dean, but when he does there's a smile smile on his lips. "M'fine," he says. "Just bruises." His voice is clouded with sleep and he yawns. "You take care o'me."  
  
"Sure you didn't hit your head on the way down?"  
  
"Mmm." His eyes close again and Dean thinks maybe he should force him to stay awake, but that peaceful look washes over his brother again and Dean can't bring himself to say anything. When Sam's sleeping Dean has to bit his tongue less, and doesn't have to worry about saying the wrong things so much.  
  
 _Any_ things. He coughs back the lump in his throat that seems to happen when he looks too long at Sam. It has for a while now and has been worse since Sam died.  
  
He's back to watching the stars, and thinks they should hold some answers. He wanted to come here because it's always been a dream, always been something he promised his ten-year-old self that he and Sam would see someday. It was meant to be everything, it was meant to signify  _something_ his life.  
  
But, in this than one year, Dean Winchester is going to die. And this place won't tell him how to stop it. Before that, Sam Winchester is gonna get the fuck outta dodge and regain his whole life, and there's no answers to stop that up there, either. So there's no answers, he just wants an excuse to not look at Sam. It doesn't work, it never works, but he has to keep trying.  
  
Sam shifts beside him again, a hiss of pain coming from him, and it's Dean's habitual reflex to look back at his brother. "Sam?" He tries to swallow down that lump again.  
  
"Think I hit my shoulder," he murmurs.  
  
Dean reaches out and prods at Sam's shoulder over the jacket. It's not as cold tonight, summer finally starting to merge with spring, but Sam still insisted on wearing it. Dean doesn't say anything this time. "Hurt?"  
  
Sam shakes his heads, but his eyes scrunch up.  
  
"If you lie to me I can't help you." He presses firmer into the shoulder, and the shaking of Sam's head quickly turns into a nod. "Cut, bruise, break...?"  
  
"All three?"  
  
Dean's turn to shake his head. "Jeez, Sammy. 'kay, gimmee a look." He pushes the jacket down and away, gathering it in a half-hearted attempt at a fold and throwing it into the back seat. Maybe it'll be hint enough to get Sam sleeping back there.  
  
"Not that bad, really."  
  
Dean ignores him and runs his hand gently over Sam's shoulder. He doesn't make any sound, doesn't move away. Dean presses a little harder, and there's only a slight response as Sam's hand curls toward his shoulder.  
  
"Don't think it's broken," Dean says. "Pretty fucking bruised, maybe. You shoulda told me earlier.”  
  
Sam makes a sound that Dean decides is one of agreement and turns his head, looks at Dean. It's dark, but Sam doesn't look in as much pain now. Dean just hopes Sam can't see anything in him, because this lack of sleep and this pain that's still aching in his side makes composure hard. Everything might be all there, laid bare of the surface, and Dean's not prepared for it. Dean feels sleep-warm fingertips against his wrist, and realises he's still holding Sam's shoulder.  
  
"Sorry," he murmurs and pulls his hand away.  
  
He thinks Sam shakes his head, but Dean can't focus. He keeps looking at Sam, though, and he's having a hard time looking away. _Hide it_. He tries so hard to, but he can't read Sam and he can't know if Sam sees something there.  
  
"Dean..." It probably wasn't even said out loud, Dean just sees Sam's lips move.  
  
"Shh..." He doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to hear anything anymore. Every time Sam talks it's like Dean's about to snap, about to say something -  _do_ \- he shouldn't. He  _can't_.  
  
The fingers on his wrist move, twisting and covering more of his arm. Dean manages to close his eyes, to block out what Sam might see. Only now he can feel Sam's breathing, warm and too close to his face.  
  
There's not enough room in the impala, not enough room in the  _world_ , and Dean tries to move his hand but can't. He doesn't know what stops it - his own self-will or Sam - but everything stays the Sam. Everything is soft, and quiet, and how it shouldn't be.  
  
Only it's exactly how he  _wants_ to be. The deal feels right again, and he remembers why he made it in the first place, and why he shouldn't be so afraid.  
  
Dean hears Sam move, feels his breath come closer, and slowly allows himself to open his eyes again. Sam's as close as Dean knew he'd be. What Dean didn't -  _doesn't_ know is what he'll do next. All his composure is thrown away now that Sam's so close, and something flickers in his eyes.  _He knows_.  
  
And because Sam knows, because Dean can't fight anymore, he clears the space between them and presses their mouths together. He didn't know what to expect, and for some reason it  _hurts_. The contact tugs at all of him and he's gasping from the suddenness of it all, his head pounding and his stomach tightening.  
  
He realises Sam's not pulling away, instead the hand on his wrist is tightening and moving, bringing Dean closer. Sam's shoulder pain seems forgotten, but Dean stays careful, pushes out the others thoughts, the other feelings, the other  _whatthefuckamidoing?s_ , because it's always been about Sam.  
  
Sam's tongue ebbs at Dean's lips and it's so natural - so disturbingly fucking natural - for Dean to open his mouth. It's still hurting, and so many things tell him to stop, but Dean shifts further from his seat and presses closer against Sam. It's only when Sam's free hands slide to his back that Dean pulls himself away, looks at his brother.  
  
They don't say anything. They've never needed to say anything. Dean runs his tongue over his bottom lip,  _tastes_ , that mix of leather and guns and sweat. Behind it, just pain. Raw, open, years and years of pain. All at once, Dean's certain Sam knows something. He might not be able to word it, might not be able to put words to it, but Sam knows he's not whole.  
  
They're both nothing, both as broken as each other, and maybe that's what brings Dean back to kiss him again. Harder. He frees his hand and presses both to the sides of Sam's face. He can taste more pain, all there on the surface of both of them, mixing and combining and seeming to cancel itself out. Fire meets fire, and it destroys everything.  
  
It's an awkward fall into the back seat. Dean hits the leather of the jacket before the leather of the seat, and it jolts something in him. First yells  _"Dad"_ yells  _"Sam"_ , despite the twinge it rips through him, Dean keeps hold of Sam. Keeps the heavy weight against him and Dean's stubborn in keeping his eyes closed. He just wants to feel this. He wants to hold onto feeling this.  
  
Maybe he wants to convince himself it's not Sam - or maybe that's the whole point. He doesn't let himself overthink, he doesn't let his mind roll over and over that this isn't happening. He just feels fingers bunch into the three shirts he's wearing and Sam pulls them up enough that a rush of cold air fits into the small space between them.  
  
Dean pulls Sam closer and blames it on survival instinct to not freeze. He can't find anything to blame when Sam pulls the shirts over his head but he's careful, so strangely careful, when it moves up Dean's side and he ghosts a hand over, not quite touching, but Dean can feel its warmth. He can't find his tongue, but wants to talk, wants to say _"you shouldn't have to do this"_ , wants to say  _"it's not your fault I'm so fucked up"_.  
  
"God--" it's Sam's choke word that mixes with the silence, previously only broken by the sounds of heavy breathing, of sliding fabric, as they move closer to each other.  
  
"Sam..." Apparently Dean can speak, but only that one word, and it's not what he should be saying.  
  
He can also move, function, in a way he shouldn't. His hands reach up and under Sam's shirt and it's painstakingly slow, watching for his brother's shoulder, but maybe that's also a good thing. They've moved away from lips again and Dean can watch Sam, he can see if there's any response that isn't good.  
  
And Dean wants to see that. Wants to see Sam reject him so badly the taste of pain courses through his body again. He can't stop it, he's lost all ability to pull himself away from Sam. But he knows he could stop if Sam says to.  _Shouldn't be -- Can't do this -- Not right --_. Dean pulls Sam's shirt over his head.  
  
It's not the first time they've been around one another without shirts. Fuck, they've seen each other naked before. But it's never included kissing  _kissing_ , never included Sam's hands running down his chest, licking his lips, moving back down to capture Dean's mouth again. And it definitely didn't include a moan escaping Dean's partially opened lips.  
  
It also never this fucking good.  
  
"Are we --?" It falls from Dean's mouth without plan. He can't do that, can't let himself let go this much, because he's gonna say something else...something he regrets, but  _fuck-- i_ 's getting harder and harder to see the difference between right and wrong.  
  
"Don't hafta do anything," Sam says. His breath dips over Dean's neck and makes him shiver. He says it, Dean believes it, but that doesn't stop Sam's cock from pressing against him. "I gotta know...how long--?"  
  
He knows what Sam's asking, but can't give voice to an answer. Can't say  _"always, Sammy, always"._ can't say  _"since you died"_. Instead he moves his hands from where they lie limp and his sides and splays them over Sam's back, pulling him closer and letting him guess the answers from his mouth.  
  
Sam's hand runs over his thigh and the distinctive sound of zipper teeth being released is louder than Dean ever remembers. His mouth going dry at the sound is another new thing. He even tries to say something anything, something along the lines of  _"don't" "no" "you don't have to"_ \- but it's all swallowed down when Sam's hand wraps around his cock.  
  
Instead those sounds he's been trying to make into words, into sentences, into some sort of comprehensible fucking statement, merge into one moan, swallowed by Sam's mouth.  
  
His hips rise to move against Sam's hand, and he doesn't know how they could get here, how they could be doing  _this_. Only it's been a long time wanting. A long time trying to drink down feelings, trying to hunt away thoughts, trying to drive from wants. Now he has it, now he has something he never understood, and Dean hooks his hands into Sam's waistband, past his jeans, and slides over bare skin.  
  
Sam's using one hand against Dean's cock and the other unbuckles his belt, the sound of more zipper teeth releasing fills Dean's ears. Again he wants to say something, tries to make his thoughts become more than  _Samsamsam Godyes_ , but can't.  
  
For once, he lets Sam guide, and letting Sam guide means they keep going. Sam's dick comes free from the zip of his jeans and hits against Dean's. Strange feeling, so fucking strange, and it's never been a turn-on before. Dean doesn't even pay attention to the men in  _Busty Asian Beautys_ , but this...  
  
"Hey." Sam's voice, and Dean looks at him. Looks at him and tries to believe this is  _really happening_. Something in him just says it's a really, really weird sex dreams to replace the nightmares of hell and the ones of Sam dying over and over again.  
  
Dean's stomach tightens and he finds Sam's mouth again. The denim's starting to chafe against his thighs and his hard dick, but Dean thrusts upwards and ignores the pain. It actually feels good, a strange mix of everything, and the fact they're half-undressed, pressed together, and breathing heavy in the back seat of the impala just seems to add to that.  
  
He hasn't done anything like this since he was sixteen. And then it was with a stumbling sophomore he knew for three days, new school and teenage libido. Most of his life came down to that.  
  
He's not gonna last much longer, and he knows it. His breathing grows ragged in Sam's mouth, but he also knows he's not just going to lie here and take it. He moves his hand from Sam's ass and wraps it around his dick.  
  
Sam's hand stops, "Fuck--" is muffled in their mouths, and then Sam's hand starts working again. Fast, hard, messy and clumsy as fuck, because he's never done this before, and he's pretty sure Sam hasn't either.  
  
"How long--?" Sam's asking again, but Dean doesn't answer. He doesn't think it matters at this point, because it's just a babble of words soon accompanied by  _"fuck" "god, yes" "Dean--Dean--"_ Dean has to kiss Sam again just to make him shut up.  
  
Sam's fingers slide over the head of his cock, and that's all he's able to hold on for. Sam's mouth at his neck, sucking into the skin, and leaving little moans, gasps, and sounds Dean didn't know his brother could make. Dean arches up against Sam's touch, against his body, and the hand not wrapped around his cock pulls at his back, holding him down.  
  
More of the friction, the chafing, and Dean falls apart against it. Against Sam. He says something, makes some sound, but he doesn't know what. He doesn't think they'll even mean anything to Sam's ears. Except maybe  _"Sam"_. Yeah,  _Sam_. Comes with his brother's name on his lips. And Sam follows with a choked sound, his own hand joining Dean's on his cock.  
  
They're breathing hard and it's the only sound in the car. He can barely look Sam in the eye, but he's pretty sure there's a smile ghosting over his brother's lips and that makes everything worse. Dean stares at the back of the driver's seat as Sam insists on kissing his neck, his shoulder, and he makes a soft humming sound against his skin.  
  
 _Fuck_.  
  
::  
  
They stay a third night. For the full moon, Sam says. Yeah, for the full moon, Dean agrees. He takes a mouthful of beer and stares up at the sky, impala squeaking when he shifts his weight.  
  
They've lived enough years on earth to see the full moon a hundred times - nearly three-hundred, Sam muses, and Dean elbows him - but, like the stars, it's different in a place like this. Bigger, brighter, like one of those super moons Sam used to insist on watching when they were kids. Until he learnt werewolves were real. He never asked again after that.  
  
Dean doesn't talk about what they've done, and Sam only tried once. _"Did we --"_ cut him. It's not that he doesn't  _want_ say something, to give them both the third degree, but this is too messed up, too fucked up for even the Winchesters, and there's also the whole  _soul selling_ he still can't open up about.  
  
That hurt more than ever last night, after Sam had fallen asleep as a tangle of limbs wound around Dean. He watched his brother andcame close, so close, to whispering the truth when his chest ached so much it was making his eyes burn. He's never lied to Sam before, not for this long.  
  
He didn't say anything, though, especially when the only place his thoughts ended was  _"Sam will leave"_. Not just if he learns about the deal, but just  _because_. Because that's what Sam does, and there's no way his brother - who is still trying the lose that freak title - will stick around. Dean's no longer delusional.  
  
"We haven't hunted a werewolf since Madison."  
  
Dean looks at Sam from the corner of his eye. "No, we haven't."  
  
He expects something more to come from that, but Sam isn't showing any emotion and he doesn't open his mouth to speak. He just drinks from the last bottle of beer they have between them and keeps his eyes on the sky.  
  
"Wanna find a hunt tomorrow?" Dean asks.  
  
Sam shakes his head, still no follow up. Dean shifts closer until their legs are knocking together. His throat grows dry, but the little smile on Sam's lips makes it go away just as quickly.  
  
"Nah, I'm likin' this. Ticking things off Dean's bucket list." He meets Dean's eye, smiles wider, and is then back to watching the sky.  
  
Hearing it described like that makes Dean's stomach lurch.  _He knows_. "And what's on Sammy's?" he manages to stumble out.  
  
Sam shrugs. "Don't have one."  
  
Sam finishes the last of the beer, leaning down to settle the empty bottle at his feet. The action makes his shirt ride up, and the scar's right there. The distinctive mark that's never going to go away, that Dean's never going to be able to look at without hurting all over.  
  
"Dean?"  
  
Sam's back to sitting upright and Dean still can't get the scar out of his mind. The image of Sam falling, of his eyes going from relief to the pain, to the dark, dark lifeless stare of death that will haunt Dean until the day he dies.  
  
It's easier than yesterday to lean over and kiss Sam, but just as painful. He's not sure if that'll ever go away, but at least it fades the image of the scar. Sam's pulling away too soon, and it's back to lingering, floating at the side of all he sees and does.  _That scar..._  
  
"Hey." Sam's hands rise to Dean's face and holds. "What's wrong?"  
  
Dean drops his head. He can't look at Sam, he'll just shatter. Everything he has is going to crumble because he knows it's impossible to keep lying - at least if they're going to keep...whatever _this_...going. And it's what Dean's wanted for longer than he ever cares to admit.  
  
"I needa ask you something," Sam says. His breath is warm against Dean's face and Dean closes his eyes, tries to block everything else out. He used to be able to do this, for anyone and anything, but Sam's always been the exception. "Dean."  
  
"What?" He hopes it sounds angry and makes Sam drop what he's going to say - but who the fuck's Dean kidding? He already knows what it is. Knew it as soon as he touched the newly revived Sam, hugged all the breath outta him. He thought he was gonna break right then and there. He didn't, so he doesn't have to now.  
  
"You gotta tell me the truth." Sam is so quiet that Dean wants to pretend he can't hear, but what Sam says next comes much louder. "Dean...did I die?"  
  
He's expecting it, but Dean still cringes. He tries to pull away, but Sam's still holding him, fingers gripping into the nape of his neck and keeping their foreheads all but pressed together. Dean won't -  _can't_ open his eyes.  
  
"Did you sell your soul for me? Like Dad did for you?"  
  
That's even worse, hearing it out loud. In his head he's been able to twist the words, change them, merge them into a whisper that's always followed with  _"for Sam, for Sam, for Sam"_. Hearing it, out loud, from Sam, it sends pain shooting through his body.  
  
Instead of pulling away again, he finds himself moving forward. Sam's hands move from his neck to his back and, for a while, all they do is hold there. Only the slightest movement comes between them as Sam presses his fingers gently into Dean's back, and Dean opens his eyes again.  
  
"How long did you get?"  
  
He swallows, tries to breathe, and just feels Sam instead.  
  
"One year. I got one year." His tone is flat. Monotone. Already dead.  
  
The fingers on his back stop moving. Dean just wants to feel them again.  
  
"How could you do that?"  
  
"I had to look out for you," Dean chokes. "That's my job."  
  
He still can't look at Sam, can't even guess how his brother's about to react. The hand drops from his back and it's replaced by the cold air he's hardly noticed before. The moon isn't as bright anymore.  
  
"And what do you think my job is?" His hands might have moved, but his face hasn't. Sam's words are still right by Dean's ear. "You save my life over and over. You sacrifice everything for me. Don't you think I'd do the same for you?"  
  
Dean doesn't answer.  _Can't_.  
  
"You're my big brother. There's  _nothing_ wouldn't do for you."  
  
Dean's teeth graze over his bottom lip and his eyes prick with heat. He knows that - he's  _always_ that - but he wishes Sam didn't say it. Sam shouldn't have to think like that, he shouldn't have to feel that way. Dad drilled it into  _Dean_ , made everything come down to  _"look after Sam"_. That's all it should ever be.  
  
"Dean--"  
  
"Don't," Dean chokes out. "Just...don't." He turns away, and this time Sam lets him.  
  
::  
  
Early the next morning, Dean has a map spread across the impala's hood. The whole of America turned into a 2D image big enough for him to reach with both arms apart. He's focusing on the west coast, his finger trailing from Arizona over to Nevada.  
  
He's always wanted to hit the tables, and he knows him and Sam could clean 'em all up with just one night of poker, round it off with some darts in a bar, and make themselves a small fortune. Then they'd blow it all on ammo and beer.  
  
There's no point in them sticking around. He's done it now. Seen numero uno on his list of greatest wonders of the world, and it's not their way to bleed it dry. He got to experience this, something Dad promised them decades ago. Only he's still not sure, still can't tell, whether it's been worth it.  
  
He's just so fucking scared, and that's all he knows. It's the only thing to weave into the gaps that have been left since Dad died, the ones that grow bigger and darker after he thought he lost Sam. Now they can be filled, but he doesn't know whether... _this_...or numb is the better choice.  
  
Sam didn't bring the deal up again all that night. He left Dean alone until the cold got too much, then his hand was moving along Dean's back again. He didn't speak, neither of them did, but Dean let himself shift back toward Sam, knees touching again, and the silence wasn't as bad.  
  
He wants to go to Vegas, really does, but he has no idea if Sam wants to travel anywhere with him. He's fucked up, he knows he has, all because he can't let go of things. He can't change the way he feels, the way he thinks he's  _always_ , and there's no doubt in his mind it'll send Sam running.  
  
So he hasn't said anything out loud. He just lets it happen. In the back seat of the impala, almost always silent except for names, and things that don't mean anything, and that one time Sam asked  _"why now?"_ Dean pretended not to hear him.  
  
The squeak of the impala's door is the only thing that makes Dean turn and start paying attention to the world again. Sam in his half-dazed, sleep-stumble makes his way toward Dean. He brings a hand out, curls it around Dean's hip, and then takes it back so quickly Dean's left wondering if it was just more of a stumble. Sam's still standing behind him, chin almost touching his shoulder.  
  
"Where we goin'?" Sam asks, finger clumsy as he traces over the map. Arizona to California. Dean wonders if it means something, and it's a kick in the gut. Then Sam yawns and his finger slides away.  
  
All that desire to hit Vegas has seeped away, leaving some achy feeling in his chest not all that different than the first time Sam said he was considering college. Not as bad as the night he left, at least. He doesn't think anything could ever be that bad. Well, not before Azazel.  
  
"Find a hunt, I guess," Dean says eventually.  
  
That seems to wake Sam up, and Dean can feel him stiffen. "Thought we were taking time off."  
  
"Had three days."  
  
"Huh." He studies Dean then turns his eyes to the sky, squinting back at the bright yellow morning light. He looks back at Dean before saying anything else. He's still squinting. "Why?"  
  
"Because we're hunters." Dean's voice is solid, but he's grappling with what to say. He decides to let the statement stand on its own.  
  
Of course Sam's not buying it. "You changed your mind quickly."  
  
Dean shrugs.  
  
"Is this about...?"  
  
Sam's still not saying it, not out loud. Not that Dean can blame him. He's refused to say it a second time.  _I sold my soul. For you_. He knows it makes him sound like a selfish jerk, and he can't think of how to make Sam know his reason was anything but. He just wanted to save Sam. That's it. That's all he's ever wanted to do. All he'll ever  _want_ do.  
  
Sam moves closer to him, hand curving to rest on Dean's lower back, and giving a gentle tug to pull them together. They're chest to chest and knee to knee, and they would be face to face if Dean could stop himself from moving away.  
  
"We should keep moving," Sam tells him.  
  
"Just to the next town." The strength in his voice is gone, hollowed out. "Grab a local paper. Find a hunt."  
  
"Or we can keep driving." Sam dips his forehead to touch against Dean's. The hand on his back goes lower, his fingers looping into Dean's belt. "Hit Vegas? Know you've always wanted to play the tables."  
  
“Don’t care,” Dean says, no matter how much he does.  
  
Sam makes a warm sound Dean can’t decipher in the back of his throat, and brings his lips to Dean’s. Soft, only for a moment, and Dean can’t tell whether he wants to pull closer or pull away.  
  
“What’re we doin’?” Dean asks, breathing too hard and fast.  
  
“Your last year.”  
  
::  
  
They drive without music. Dean can't think of what to listen to, and Sam has no preference for mullet rock. They keep darting looks at each other, then the other doesn't notice when it's so painfully obvious that they do. Dean wants to say something, to  _explain_ \- Sam's death, the deal, this...thing they've got going on - but his mouth is dry and they've finished all the beer.  
  
“Hey," Sam says at one point. He reaches out and squeezes Dean's thigh. It's not like he's about to try anything, Dean thinks the action's just meant to be reassuring, but it still jolts him. He pulls his leg away too quickly and stares straight ahead for at least another ten miles. When he looks back, Sam's watching him.  
  
"So, Vegas..." Dean tries to smile, but it's just as hard as it's always been. "What's your game, Sammy? A little blackjack, or we could see you try to cream me at poker - taught you everythin' you know."  
  
Sam's smile seems more genuine, but Dean can't tell if his brother's just a better actor than him. "I know a bit more than you ever taught me. I did go to some college parties."  
  
"Card games with frat boys are not parties."  
  
Sam huffs out a laugh and turns to the window. Dean lets the fake smile on his lips drop away and does the same. It's just desert everywhere. They've hardly ever hunted on the west coast, and he doesn't know why. Just that, because of it, childhoods for him and Sam weren't beaches, or Grand Canyon hikes, or Disneyland. They were salt n' burns, trekking through the woods, and perfecting their shooting techniques.  
  
It's exactly the life Dean never wanted for Sam, and now it's too late. All of it is. He's failed as a brother, failed at the one job he's actually ever dedicated himself to. Now he's been given a chance to fix it, and he ruined it by opening his big, fucking mouth last night.  
  
Actually, it was already pretty fucked by the night before that.  
  
 _Welcome to Nevada_ is in the rearview mirror before Dean registers it. He has a year. One year. A year to do anything -  _everything_ \- he's ever wanted. Sam's words burn into him -  _what's my job?_ ; _nothing I wouldn't do for you_ but he can't bring himself to regret it.  
  
It'd be like regretting his job, regretting putting Sam first, regretting _saving_. Dean could never do any of those things, they're too far ingrained in him now. He's gripping onto those reasons with all ten fingers and never letting go and keeps pushing the guilt down.  
  
He tries to look around like he did at the Canyon, trying to take in another place he's always wanted to see. It's a stark contrast. They're not even on the strip and and there's bright lights everywhere, neon and flashing and buzzing and humming. It manages to strike its way into the tinted impala windows, bouncing off the dash, the seats, even Sam's body.  
  
"I did it for you," Dean says. His hands grip tighter on he wheel, and he stares at the  _Elvis Chapel_ in front of him. "I know you think it's 'cause of Dad, but it's not."  
  
"Look, I know --"  
  
"No, Sam, just listen, okay?" He has to get it all out now. Along the bright streets, chugging at a pace to rival walking and looking ahead instead of at Sam. "I'm meant to be dead. We know that. This deal, it'll set things right." He hears move in the seat, but refuses to look over. He'll just crack, he knows it. "But, more than that, I just gotta do this for you. My job, Sam.  _Our_. Saving people, hunting things - right? We can't do that if you're gone."  
  
"Can't do that if you're gone either, Dean."  
  
He lets himself look over now and Sam's watching him, turned a full one-eighty in his seat, and his eyes light up, waver, every time they pass a blinking light.  
  
Dean's gripped the wheel so tight he can't even turn it, so he just keeps going forward, following the lights that get brighter and brighter as they travel further and further into the heart of the city. So he'll have to fork out thousands for a room in a glorified brothel. Whatever. Money doesn't seem to matter that much anymore.  
  
"Sammy, c'mon." His voice feels tight, like he's not supposed to be speaking. "What was I supposed to do?"  
  
"You should've left me."  
  
Sam's voice is so quiet Dean's not even sure of the words, but he does react to it. His eyes shoot straight to Sam where they stay frozen. "Don't you say that."  
  
"It's true." Sam's voice breaks and it brings all of Dean along with it. Another wavering of breath before he continues. "Don't you get it? All of this - it's doing nothing good."  
  
"I get you alive!" Those words seem to shake something in Dean, and he swerves the impala into the next street. There's still so many lights, so many people, so much of the atmosphere you don't get anywhere else, but the traffic has died down.  
  
He picks up speed and moves around the cars, taking each turn that comes until they're in the Vegas outskirts. Back out toward the desert where the roads turn dusty and it's cacti and sand dunes instead of mini skirts and casinos.  
  
More than anything, Dean's just  _driving_  because, sometimes, things make more sense when he's got his baby moving beneath him. Like Sam, like Sam being alive, and he's brother's smart at keeping silent, because Dean's got no idea what he's feeling.  
  
He brings the car to a dead halt on the road's shoulder and slams his way out. "You're alive, Sam," he says and kicks at a stone as he rounds the impala to sit on her hood. "S'all that matters."  
  
Sam follows him with soft footsteps. "You're going to hell." The way he says it, it's like it's that last thing he'll ever say. The most important sentiment from a dying man. It's like how Dad used to talk about the demon.  
  
"I have a year." He tries to laugh at how pathetic that is, but the sound gets stuck in his throat.  
  
Sam nods and looks up, blinking. "Yeah and I got the rest of my life." His eyes shift back over to Dean's. "I'm gonna get you outta this, I gotta."  
  
 _No_. The demon's words are back if full force:  _if you try and welch or weasel your way out, then the deal is off...Sam drops dead...he's back to rotting meat in no time_. Dean won't tell Sam. He's already said enough. Instead, he jumps from the hood and presses his hands to either side of Sam's face and kisses him.  
  
That pain is still constant, and he's decided that it's never going to go away. That feeling deep in his gut that everything -  _everything_ is wrong keeps growing, but it seems to get worse when they're  _not_. And Dean's over it, he's done with what the world wants from him. He'll let the pain thrive, so long as what Sam wants is right there with it.  
  
He manages to turn Sam without breaking the contact, pushes him against the impala, and shoves down all that hurt. He buries it deep down along with the words of  _guilt_ ,  _worthless_ , and  _hurt_ it can just stay and grow like it always has.  
  
Sam grips Dean's shirt and rips him away. "Dean, what --?"  
  
Dean shakes his head and presses Sam harder against the car until he's half-up on her hood, legs too long to be lifted from the ground. Sam opens his mouth, and Dean thinks he might be about to say something, but Dean doesn't want to hear it. He shoves Sam's hands away, grips at his shirt, and drags their mouths back together.  
  
The back of Sam's knees hit the grille and Dean forces Sam to stay seated there, to keep himself still except for the movement of hands and lips and tongue. Dean's hands yank at Sam's shirt while his teeth gently bite against Sam's neck.  
  
When he can't see Sam, there's something easier about this. At least for a minute. The neck, it doesn't belong to a girl - not even a male stranger - it's distinctly  _Sam's_. Impala leather, and desert dust, a five-dollar, gas-station beer.  _Sam_.  
  
Dean leaves the skin and drops to his knees, working at Sam's belt. Sam style as his - fuck, all belts are the same, aren't they? - but his hands seem to have forgotten what a buckle is and how to get it  _off_.  
  
"Dean--" Sam's hands move down to Dean's, trying to pull them away.  
  
"Shut up," Dean suggests and swats him away. That seems to revive something in him, because the belt comes away easier now, along with the zip.  
  
The impala squeaks and Dean looks up to see Sam rocking back on his elbows.  _Good_. He wants him to stay like that, wants him to forget about the deal for just awhile. He pushes Sam's jeans down enough to get his hands through and it's still so messed up, but right now he can't think enough to care.  
  
Dean rolls his eyes upward to look at Sam and their eyes lock before Sam's head falls back to rest on the impala's body. Dean runs a hand over the waistband of Sam's boxers, pulling them down and pushing away.  
  
So he's never actually  _done this_ , but another look up to Sam's body and he figures it can't have that much of a learning curve. Besides, Dean Winchester does not fail at anything concerning sex - and he certainly doesn’t do it half-assed.  
  
Sam's chest rises in short, sharp movements, and Dean just focuses on that. Everything else disappears. It hardly lasts anytime at all, and then Dean finds Sam's neck again. He can feel his heartbeat, his breath all stutter-stops and staccato. Sam's the one that finds his mouth and Dean lets him, sighing as he does.  
  
Yeah, okay, he'll spend his last year like this. He can handle that.  
  
::  
  
They eventually make it to the strip. Sam's up twelve-hundred bucks with blackjack (Dean's sure he's counting cards, but Sam's got a staunch mouth and perfect poker face and he ain't talking) and Dean's macho-act doesn't let him accept that. Sam shakes his head and acts pissed, but Dean knows he's got a grin going deep down. Besides, he's got to prove he's better than Dean at something.  
  
Dean's not about to admit it, of course, but he knows Sam's better than him at pretty much everything out there.  
  
Money in pockets, they're back with the map spread across the impala's hood. Motel parking lot this time, and Sam's not at all shy or subtle with the way he's standing chest to back with Dean, leaning against his shoulder. Dean doesn't think he's even paying attention to the map.  
  
“Where are we going next?”  
  
“Beach.”  
  
That wasn't on any original plan he had. Now they're moving it's like an explosion of childhood wants pounding his brain – beach, Disneyland, the big apple.  
  
“You got all the bases covered,” Sam says.  
  
“Gettin' the most outta life,” Dean agrees.  
  
Sam runs his finger along the west coast and he stalls at the border of Vegas and California. Dean doesn't ride it off this time. It feels like someone’s yanking out his insides a foot at a time and it takes all of him to keep that hidden. It’s like last week all over again, he feels like he’s gotta keep his game face on. But things are different, altered to a point where he doesn’t think that’s possible anymore.  
  
Sam’s hand drops back and rests on Dean’s hip. “What is it?” he asks.  
  
Dean wants to see Sam's face, but refuses to turn.  
  
gDean.”  
  
“California beaches,” he says. He clears his throat. “Yeah, let's go there – you know what Roth said about the girls.”  
  
He can practically  _feel_ Sam frowning and turns. Sam already knows everything, so why's Dean trying to hide? It's a show, a fraud, a defensive mechanism he used to replace dark humor and staring off into the distance like some freaking melodramatic teenager. Now he’s trying to be more like Sam. He broods.  
  
“You got something you wanna say?”  
  
Dean shakes his head, purses his lips, and tries to be subtle by looking over Sam's shoulder before he speaks. “Nah.”  
  
“Got some chick in California you're not telling me about?” Sam's eyes dance and it's Dean's turn to frown. Yeah, he knows what Sam's doing. It doesn't change anything. “C'mon, man. Spill.”  
  
Dean tries to find the answers in the desert. There aren't any, of course, just miles and miles of red-brown dust and a long strip of asphalt with harsh, yellow double-lines. He runs a hand over his chin and looks back at Sam. “Do you wanna go back to college?”  
  
“What? No.” It seems way too fast to be the truth.  
  
“Sam.” Dean keeps his voice steady, even, despite the fact it feels like the lump in his throat is about to exit through his mouth.  
  
“I don't wanna go back.” Now it's too slow, like he's trying to  _patronise_ Dean.  
  
Dean glares straight at Sam – looking him up and down, daring him to say the truth – because it's right there. Dean can feel it right there below the surface, below whatever fa _ç_ ade Sam's had to put on to get through...through  _this_  crazy, messed-up, turn-the-world-upside-down _thing_ they've got going on.  
  
“I went to school because I was a freak.” It's still slow, it's still Sam acting like the biggest dick he's capable of being, but Dean listens. For once in his fucking life, he listens. “And I didn't wanna be a freak. I wanted to escape all of that.”  
  
He pauses and gives Dean that half-looped smile that really, really shouldn't make him want to kiss Sam. Again. “And, uh, given all that's happened...” He shrugs. “I dunno, man. I just think I don't need that anymore, y'know?”  
  
“Wait.” Dean backtracks, pauses on the words  _freak_ and  _escape_ and _happened_ and  _anyone_. “You – you feel like  _less_ of a freak  _now_?”  
  
The smile skits across Sam’s face again, wider this time, borders on a grin bright enough to rival any other piece of happiness out there in Dean’s world. He’s gotta admit, it’s a far far-and in- between thing. Here, with his car and his brother. They’re happiness. They’re home.

Sam steps closer. “What’d you say about hitting the beach?”

**Author's Note:**

> TRACKLIST
> 
> 01\. Wilco - Pot Kettle Black  
> 02\. Imagine Dragons - Drive  
> 03\. Hans Zimmer - Going to Mexico  
> 04\. Lady Gaga - The Edge of Glory  
> 05\. Imagine Dragons - I Need a Minute  
> 06\. String Quartet - Paradise City  
> 07\. Wolfmother - New Moon Rising  
> 08\. Twin Atlantic - Make a Beast of Myself  
> 09\. James Blunt - Stay The Night  
> 10\. Phantom Planet - California


End file.
